


Messy Kitchens, Messy Hearts

by Garotte8Goodnight



Series: Coming in from the cold [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Boys Being Cute, Bucky needs a hug, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garotte8Goodnight/pseuds/Garotte8Goodnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is woken up at 4am to find Bucky covered in cake batter in the middle of his kitchen. Steve's life is strange enough at this point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Messy Kitchens, Messy Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [howler32557038](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/gifts).



> Written in about half an hour as the result of a conversation about messy kitchens, thus entirely un-beta'd and any mistakes are mine.

Steve wakes up at 4am, which in and of isn't exactly unusual, but even though he's never talked to Peter Parker about what exactly it feels like, he could swear his spidey sense is tingling. That, or he has some kind of innate sixth sense for when Bucky is doing something particularly stupid. Steve would put money on the latter.

He stumbles out of bed, trying to wrestle his legs free from where the covers are tangled around them holding them hostage, and makes it as far as the door before he remembers to at least put a tshirt on with his boxers. 

He follows the light down the hall with no little trepidation, but when he pushes open the kitchen door all he sees is.. Well, disaster to put it mildly. It looks like a bomb has hit, and honestly, Steve is more than a little worried about how deeply he sleeps these days because there is no way in hell a super soldier should have been able to sleep through.. Whatever this is. 

In the middle of the chaos and mess is a rather disgruntled looking Winter Soldier, he's covered in what looks like flour and eggs and God alone knows what else, and Steve wants to hold his head in his hands and scream. Something drops onto his forehead from above and, even though he really doesn't want to know what that was, he looks anyway. Oh, there is batter on his ceiling. Okay.

He runs a hand over the tired lines in his forehead; "Bucky, what on earth..?"

The brunette stood in the middle of the chaos, clutching a wooden spoon protectively to his chest, just shrugs. That's the final straw for Steve to be honest.

"What were you *thinking*?" Steve implores, gesturing wildly, and he may be a little wide eyed, but he's sleep deprived and this is really. Not. Helping. 

The lack of response from the other man, who's gaze remains flat and uninterested, pushes Steve that little bit too far. He thought they were past this now; the man in front of him may not be the Bucky Barnes he remembers from his childhood, but he's also not the Winter Soldier that Steve faced down on the bridge.

"What, trashing my apartment in DC wasn't enough? Now you've got to make sure the New York one matches? Is there some kind of matching Captain America collectable apartment set that I'm unaware of?!"

Bucky does look a little guilty at that, but it's 4am and Steve is exhausted. "Out." He points in the direction of the bathroom, "go get cleaned up."

He watches the blue eyed man slink past him, as silent on his feet as a jungle cat, and waits for the sound of the shower to flick on before he starts piling all of the bowls and dishes and spoons into the sink. He is militaristically efficient when he cleans; the washing up sits and soaks whilst he piles empty packets and wrappers into the trash, and he cleans down the sides first with wipes, scooting the majority of the mess straight over the edge into the crash can waiting below, then again with the lemony spray that reminds him of Sarah Rogers and her marigolds on a Sunday morning before church.

Next the washing up mountain is tackled, and really, what did Bucky think he was doing with three different mixing bowls of what can only be described as goop?! He makes short work of the dishes, and leaves them to air dry on the draining rack whilst he mops the floor. 

By the time he's done everything smells faintly of lemon and bleach. Clinical and clean and like the smell his Ma used to carry on her clothes when she came in from a shift on the ward. She'd sneak in without turning the lights on, knowing that Steve would be curled up on the couch waiting up but that he would've long succumbed to sleep, often with Bucky curled around him keeping him warm. She'd meet Bucky's eyes over the back of the couch, mouth a thank you at him through the dark, before heading to bed herself. The smell would trail into the apartment behind her, and even if he didn't wake up he'd relax that little bit more knowing she was home safe. 

\--

It's only when Steve turns his attention to the kitchen table that he notices the crumpled piece of paper; it's covered with a looping scrawl that he'd recognise anywhere as Bucky's handwriting. Not the Winter Soldiers precise scratch, but Bucky's fancy italics that Steve remembers watching him practice. 

He picks it up, scanning it quickly to see if it's anything important before he trashes it. Even if it's not he might keep it. Oh.

"Dreams. Can't sleep. July 4th, 1934. Important? Why? Cake. No. Chocolate. Why Chocolate? What does this mean?!!"

And things to that effect, over and over. Lines of thought that move in endless circles never leading to answers.

Steve bites his lip as his eyes burn hot. July 4th, 1934, Steve turned 16. It was his first birthday after his Ma passed away, and Bucky had been determined to make it a happy memory. He'd spent hours making the biggest chocolate cake he could find ingredients for, and they'd eaten it curled up on the fire escape watching fireworks burst across the sky.

That's what Bucky had been trying to do, Steve chokes out a hoarse laugh as it catches in his throat, eyes wet. He'd been up at 4am trying to bake Steve chocolate cake because of some half remembered dream that seemed to be driving him mad.

It's then Steve notices that the shower still hasn't shut off. He knocks carefully on the bathroom door, and tests the handle after he gets no response. At least it's not locked.

He thinks something in him might break when he sees his best friend curled up small on the floor of the shower, leaning against the cold tiles. 

"Bucky..?" He moves slowly as he steps into the room, doesn't want to startle the other man who's looking at him with such an expression of guilt that Steve stomach does a funny flop.

Steve pulls his shirt off so he's clad in only his boxers and steps into the shower too, sinks to the floor beside the other man. 

"You were trying to bake me cake?" His voice doesn't crack as he says it, nope. He is not crying over his amnesiac prisoner of war best friend trying and failing to bake him cake in the middle of the night, just because he remembered doing the same thing over 70 years ago. 

Bucky looks up at him with those eyes that could tell a thousand stories, even though he doesn't talk much these days.

"I couldn't remember the recipe your Ma taught me." His voice sounds stuffy and it's then Steve notices that his eyes are rimmed red. No wonder he's been in here so long.

Steve wraps his arm around the other man, gripping the cool metal of his left shoulder and tugging him to lean into his side. 

"I remember it, I can teach you again. Just maybe not at 5am, huh?"

Bucky nods, burrowing his face into that gap between Steve's neck and shoulder where he doesn't have to look at Steve's face. See the hurt and pity painting his features. Steve just runs a gentle hand through Bucky's hair. He's not sure how long they stay there. 

Steve gives Bucky a gentle shake when he feels the water start to cool. He thinks he might have fallen asleep, face still hidden where he's laying against Steve's shoulder. 

Blue eyes blink up at him. He smiles back.

"Hey you ready for bed?" 

Bucky nods and Steve stands, ignoring his protesting joints, and shuts off the water. He offers his friend a hand, pulling him up with him and guiding him out of the shower. He grabs a soft white towel from the pile on the shelf and Bucky takes it gratefully. 

Steve takes a smaller one from the pile and uses it to towel off his hair, Bucky not protesting, just tilting his head back to allow Steve easier access. 

"Why did you want to make me cake anyway?"

Steve thinks his question may have taken Bucky by surprise, he can't see his face properly from this angle, but he watches his eyes widen for a second and a flash of embarrassment flit across his features. 

"I may not remember the recipe, but I remembered why I wanted to make it."

His cheeks are tinged pink and Steve feels his breath catch in his throat as Bucky carefully pulls away from where he's still holding a towel wrapped around his head, and let's it fall to the floor as he turns to face Steve. 

He's still wrapped in the biggest fluffiest towel Steve owns and he can't help but think how small and vulnerable he looks, which is a stupid thought really, because this man knows how to kill him in 15 different ways with his pinky finger without breaking a sweat. But Bucky is leaning in towards him here and laying all of his cards on the table so to speak.

The soft press of lips against his own takes Steve by surprise as much as he's expecting it, and he holds Bucky tightly to him as he opens up, let's the slightly smaller man set the pace. The dark haired man pulls away after a minute, but doesn't move away from Steve; just rests his forehead against Steve's own. Cornflower blue eyes meet sea-glass, two different shades of the same colour. Steve notices they're swaying from side to side where Bucky is leaning his body against his chest, arms wrapped tight around each other.

And Steve remembers a July night in 1934 with two young boys, one brunette, one blonde, dancing on a fire escape the sky behind them alit by fireworks. Flashes of coloured light in the dark night, as the brunette boy whispers excitedly that everything in the world, even the fireworks and Steve and Bucky themselves are made of the same stuff as stars. So really they're all lights in the night, some just a little smaller than others, said with a wink. 

Steve closes his eyes and thinks of fireworks over Brooklyn.


End file.
